


Culture Shock

by alisso



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-13
Updated: 2009-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisso/pseuds/alisso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never met anyone like Sam Tyler in his <i>life</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Culture Shock

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking a lot about the differences between 1970s sexual attitudes compared to the way things are today. Someone like Gene Hunt would have very set ideas about what queers do, what men do, and what's normal. Sam Tyler, therefore, with his norties knowledge and open mind, would come as somewhat of a shock, if they ever got around to resolving all that tension between them.

Gene's world and time is quite simple. Beyond the wild, out-there queers, who aren't hanging around Manchester just yet (time enough for that later on, Sam says), gay sex, hell, all sex, boils down to hand-jobs and fucking.

Another man might wank you off, but that's something for mates going through hard times, a holdover from national service, from having no better option handy, as it were. And poofs fuck each other. Pansies take it up the arse.

He's never met anyone like Sam in his _life_.

Sam doesn't do subtle in these things. Except he does. No one else has noticed a thing, and no one ever will. But when things first got started, when Gene was trying to catch his eye with the same look he knew from the old days, mates helping mates, Sam wasn't flicking him a glance here and there, a shrug or a nod. Sam was looking right back, staring him down, looking like, fuck, like some slag out of a movie, all wanton and wanting. Not subtle at all.

Sometimes he wonders if Sam Tyler's big secret is that he was actually a pro in Hyde. Maybe that's why he got transferred. Because surely no normal man would do the things Sam does.

Normal men who need a bit of relief, who don't want to risk diseases from a pro, or fury from the missus if they're caught with a sympathetic young lady, they certainly don't do what Sam does. Christ, Gene has been with working girls who won't do some of the things Sam has done for him.

To be honest, he hadn't ever _really_ thought Sam was gay (Sam tells him now that he's "bisexual", and while he's never gone into great detail regarding what that means, he did show Gene a movie they'd confiscated when they broke a porn ring, and that kind of gave him the idea...he thinks it's probably as close to "slut" as you can get while remaining monogamous). He'd thought there was something going on between him and Annie, nice young lass that she was. Probably, he's decided, best for all concerned that nothing came of that.

After Sam had been around for a while, they'd become something like friends - a strange mix of respect and frustration and both of them furiously determined to see the other make the best of themselves, whatever that took - and he'd thought, well, when he'd seen how Sam was struggling, how his relationship with Annie seemed so off-kilter, how he'd been fighting against himself and the world...well, he'd thought he'd offer some assistance.

He's man enough to admit (now), that he wasn't blind to the attractiveness of the man he was trying to help out in a friendly and manly fashion. Gene might not consider himself gay, never will, but even when he was convinced he was as normal as the next man, he could still tell the difference between Rock Hudson and Sid James. So yes, he'd seen. He'd noticed all the skirts noticing Tyler, and he had eyes in his head same as they did.

It might even be possible to go so far as to say that could have, maybe, had a bit of influence over his decision to make the offer in the first place. More so he could smirk at the girls in the canteen because he'd gotten Tyler's hands down his pants before they did than anything else, naturally.

He'd expected those subtle flashes of understanding, that they'd adjourn to somewhere quiet and private (but completely impersonal and unfamiliar), that it would be dark and secret and muffled and mutual and hard and then it would be over and there'd be no more said about it. No eye contact (past the first silent question), no noises, and no discussion afterwards.

What he hadn't expected was Sam Tyler.

Hadn't expected Sam to reach for him, a hand going to the back of his neck, the minute they got into the relative privacy of the toilet cubicle. Hadn't expected, after he'd pulled away, to see a flash in Sam's eye that resembled the glint he got when they fought. Hadn't expected him to be so damn loud.

Once he had his hand around Tyler's cock (and hadn't it been a production, getting there), he'd expected Sam to return the favour, not to start moaning and shaking like a half-crown whore. Hadn't expected to hear his name gasped, stammered, downright fucking _whimpered_.

He'd almost given up in disgust, reasoning that if he wanted a bird, he would have found one, but then he'd finally discovered the secret to actually shutting Sam Tyler up.

All he'd done was opened his mouth to tell the noisy little bastard to keep it down or they'd get sprung, and the next thing he knew, Sam was making much less noise, on account of their mouths being very firmly pressed together.

In some respects, this was worse than the noise. Sure, it wouldn't get them caught, but this was not part of the deal. This was queer, pansy territory. This was the sort of thing that got you a hell of a lot more than a slap on the wrist if you were caught. In all his years, he'd never _kissed_ another man. That wasn't how you played the game.

His hand had faltered, unsure, which was also a mistake, because once he stopped pumping, he was just holding the damn thing, hot and hard in his hand, and he could feel the blood moving under the skin, and ruddy Tyler's whine of protest made his lips buzz and tingle in a way that left him unsure as to whether he wanted to pull away and scrub them clean, or push harder into the kiss to scratch at the almost-itch the sound left behind.

Sam, of course, took the decision out of his hands. He _bit_ him, just hard enough to scratch that itchy feeling, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and now he was the one making inappropriate noises, and his grip tightened involuntarily and Sam thrust into his hand and finally, _finally_ , started to reciprocate. There were busy hands on his belt buckle and worming their way into his pants, and he hadn't expected Sam to actually push them down, right down over his hips and down to his ankles. Still, the hand that grabbed him (when it finally did) was reassuringly masculine and rough and he thought that maybe, kissing aside, they might be able to get back to something close to normal. Get each other off and say no more about it.

That was before Sam had pulled away from the disturbing kiss (all the more disturbing when he realised he'd tried to follow him as he did), batted away Gene's hand still idly gripping his cock, and dropped abruptly to his knees.

For a moment or two he hadn't been able to figure out what was going on. Sam on his knees in front of him, he would later discover, frequently short-circuited his brain. He looked down, baffled, to see Sam looking back up at him, and the eye contact was unavoidable and drawn-out.

If he hadn't been leaning against the cubicle wall, he might have fallen over. He felt his cock twitch against Sam's hold on it, and that was what broke the (searing, heated, fiery, overwhelming...there weren't enough words for it in his vocabulary) stare between them. Because Sam looked down at it when it moved - another mistake, you didn't look, you never looked - in his hand, and leant forward, and Gene could have wept for the involuntary reaction that threw his head back to hit the wall and squeezed his eyes closed tight because when he looked again, he realised he'd been missing out on one of the most amazing sights of his life.

Pros would go down on you, for the right price, but it was never like this. Short hair didn't obscure the view like long hair did, and no pro had ever stared up at him like that while she worked. Once or twice he might have seen lipstick stained lips straining around him, but he'd never seen flushed cheeks, bright eyes narrowed and staring. And he'd sure as hell never felt stubble scrape across his skin _there_ before.

And whores'll moan, kick up a fuss and act like they like it, but he'd never in his life seen such genuine, unabashed enthusiasm. Sam's eyes kept drifting closed, and whenever they did, he made a little humming noise, the sort of satisfied sound Gene associated with really good food, or the first beer of the evening, and that he'd never, ever be able to hear from Sam again without remembering how it felt around his cock.

He'd known the instant he'd realised what Sam was up to, down on his knees, that this wouldn't last long, that he couldn't last long like this, and he tried to make that clear, tried to warn Sam of what was about to happen. But for some reason he couldn't make his mouth work, and his half-hearted shove at Sam's shoulder went unacknowledged, and then it was too late anyway.

When his thoughts caught up with what he'd seen in the heart-stopping moment of lightning pleasure, he'd almost gotten hard all over again at the realisation that Sam had actually _swallowed_. He'd been barred by a whole street's worth of girls for six months the only time he hadn't warned one early enough for her to pull back and finish him off with her hand. She'd spat it out on the carpet of the car they'd been in, and he'd had to spend half an hour scrubbing it clean before he could return it to the station's car pool.

Sam wasn't a pro, wasn't paid to put up with this. And he'd still gone further than anyone, pro, girlfriend or even wife, had been prepared to go before. He'd never, before then, he'd never felt anything like that at the moment he'd gone over the edge, never still been buried in heat and wetness and suction that lingered as he shuddered and shook in the aftermath.

Suddenly Sam was getting to his feet, and kissing him, and he would have pulled away from the unfamiliar taste in his mouth, he really would, except he was still feeling sated and content and exceedingly generous towards the man who had just given him the most remarkable sexual experience of his life. With that generous feeling in mind, he'd reached down to finish what he'd started, so long ago, it seemed. It had come as a shock to find it was too late for that.

Blinking in confusion, he'd looked at Sam, who'd shrugged and grinned, that little, self-deprecating grin of his, and, astonished, Gene had leant in to kiss him again, wanting to say thank you (and maybe wanting to taste that grin before it slipped away from him), wanting to do _something_ to show his appreciation for someone who had sucked him with so much enthusiasm that they'd come from it themselves (he hadn't thought it possible).

And that had been the most astonishing part of it all. He'd kissed Sam Tyler. He, Gene Hunt, had leant in and kissed another man (even if that man was a poncy-arsed fairy from Hyde, he was still a man). And he'd wanted to do it.

And nothing had been the same after that.

(Occasionally he's prepared to concede, but only after Sam has done something particularly nice - or filthy - for him, that things might be better. But he has a sneaking suspicion that when he accuses Sam of turning his life upside-down and inside-out, Sam is listening to what he means, not what he's saying. So that's all right.)


End file.
